


Respite

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grieving John, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:16:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laughter: A coping mechanism, a salvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

When John Watson attended Sherlock's funeral he realised how wrong the man had been. How many people had cared, thoroughly and completely, but he was such an abnormal specimen of a human being that no one really knew how to express their fondness. Because that's what it was - quiet affection.

The general, drab proceedings of an ordinary funeral went past without much drama. The event itself would have scored a one, maybe a two at best, John thought. He turned to his left to tell the empty space beside him before his jaw clicked shut and he remembered why he was there. The air was stifling in the small, badly decorated room and the fact that this final farewell wasn't being held in an ancient, timeless cave, or that the bland words of his eulogy weren't echoing of vast, architectural ceilings of a great cathedral suddenly seemed very ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes suddenly seemed very, very-

-melodramatic.

The whole situation was frankly hilarious. People seated on the dull seating in front of him - vague acquaintances, good friends, complete strangers from a different life - kept turning around, angrily glaring at the man who's shoulders were shaking uncontrollably with barely restrained giggles (we can't, we can't, not here, it's a crime scene, it's your crime scene). He could imagine Sherlock scoffing at the whole thing, slouching precariously yet artfully on the chair to his left.

_"Can't you just sit up and pay attention?" John would hiss. "This is important."_

_"It's all so frightfully pointless, John. If you wanted to experience a real death ritual we could have at least gone to the blood sacrifice of some poor goat in southern London." Sherlock would blink at him with alert, undamaged eyes and John would chuckle because yes, that would have been better._

_"Fine, fine, we'll go. Not that I have much choice in the matter. Never have done, with you. For the love of all things holy though, please stop sulking." And he would grip the back of his chair tightly in exhilaration to get away from that horrid man who keeps spewing horrid words about someone perfect and untouchable that he barely even knew._

_Sherlock would stand and his coat would ripple marvellously around him, like he were some kind of beautiful water God, like he were in water, being dragged under by relentless currents, drowning, drowning in his own blood._

_And Sherlock's coat would be gone, crushed beneath the weight of a corpse that's really still quite warm_

_And Sherlock would also be gone, as ambiguous as the wind_

_And there would be a noise like something so insignificant as a pigeon's feet on tarmac or a body hitting the pavement until all John would be able to hear would be the sound of his own screams._

John was still gripping the chair tightly, could still feel the ripple of hilarity burning through his ribcage, so he forced himself to listen to the horrid little stranger and to school his features into something maybe a mourner would wear. He didn't know what that would feel like on his face.

Outside was worse. He watched the imbeciles lovingly lower the coffin that perhaps contained the body of his best friend into the earth so gently, so fucking gently. It's like they thought he could break but of course, he had already done that for them.

 _"Put me there instead."_ He thought. _"Ease my body calmly into the cold, dead earth. Leave me there beside the box so I can drown too."_

" _Sherlock Holmes was supposed to leave me in glorious flames and melodrama and everlasting perfection and I was supposed to join him."_ He thought. _"Not like this_."

And then, _"I wonder if Mrs Hudson will want the skull."_

He stood withholding the ridiculousness for as long as he thought possible, before he turned and fled the sorry looking bunch to find a taxi. He felt it unwise to burst into raucous laughter even inside a cab, even on the pavement, turning his key into the well-worn lock, even on the stairs to face the door of flat B, even-

The emptiness of the room was evident, lingering in the spaces between the piles of unorganised clutter and on every dust mote in the air. Every souvenir of every completed case, every abandoned pen and sheet of careless paper: it was like a museum, preserved and perfect. He was scared to even breathe.

But it was still so, _so_ funny.

And at the moment when the laughter was finally wrenched from his chest and the clogged tears burned threateningly like strangled sobs at the back of his throat -- at that moment, he realised it wasn't actually laughter at all.


End file.
